


The Sun Will Shine On Us Again

by SociopathicArchangel



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, give me connor anderson or give me death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 17:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociopathicArchangel/pseuds/SociopathicArchangel
Summary: “It’s touching,” Connor says with a small smile. “Markus did always tell us Carl was like a father to him.”Hank hums. “Well. Good men raise good sons.”Connor laughs then and turns to him, a knowing look in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, they do.”





	The Sun Will Shine On Us Again

Hank slowly stops drinking.

He doesn’t know when it starts to happen, doesn’t even know when he’s made the conscious choice to just do it, but he knows that one sunny Tuesday afternoon, he opens his fridge to reheat a few slices of pizza, and eyes a beer bottle that he’s had since three weeks ago, and thinks  _nah, not today._

And then he blinks because when was the last time he’s said that?

He can’t ever really recall a time when he’s gone a week sober – at least, not until recently. Most nights blur in drunken hazes and games of Russian roulette, coupled with a few hours of guilty crying and staring at Sumo, because who would take care of the poor dog when Hank was gone? Who would even make sure the big boy would go to another human who would care for him the way Hank did? Most likely, he’d just end up in the pound. Sad and alone and maybe neglected. That would add to the long list of Hank’s fuckups. His dog. His poor, poor dog who was so earnestly happy to be living with a good-for-nothing drunk.

It’s fortunate he’s not that. It’s a good enough morning that he’s able to think this. It’s a good enough morning that he can appreciate that he’s alive, despite all the disastrous endings he could have gone through. A bullet through the head by an android wearing his partner’s face and serial number. Run over by a car because his vision was doubling while he was crossing the street. Him finally firing lead under his jaw instead of a blank. Too many burgers. Too much alcohol. Connor always did read his calorie and alcohol intake and tell him it was too much, and he supposes it’s the android’s way of gently telling him to stop.

Connor. Right.

Hank stares at the beer bottle inside his fridge, pizza box in hand. There’s a yip from the backyard, from Sumo happily tackling Cyberlife’s last greatest creation, and then a laugh, and Hank feels his heart hammer in his chest a little less slowly.

Connor reads him his alcohol intake whenever he drinks, and Hank tells him to mind his own business, and the android tells him,  _no_ ,  _that’s not good for you, Lieutenant_. And maybe it’s been working, because Hank doesn’t think he’s told Connor to shut his smartass mouth about his alcoholism in the past week, or the last week, or the week before that. Maybe he’s feeling guilty even if androids don’t get tired and Connor will simply log in an alarm in his system so he can periodically tell Hank to get some water and sleep when he’s drinking again. Maybe he’s taken a look at a beer bottle and then at Connor and thought,  _not in front of the kid._

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking that. Human deviancy is also a thing, maybe. He finds himself snickering at that.

He closes the fridge door, heats up the pizza, and then brings a plate of slices to the backyard to watch Connor throw a Frisbee with deadly accuracy, while Sumo tries to chase after it. The backyard’s not that huge, but the dog is running as fast as he can, and he snatches the plastic disk out of the air easily as Connor’s calculated its trajectory precisely. Sumo runs back to him, drops the Frisbee at his feet, and Connor turns to Hank with the brightest smile on his face.

Show-off.

“You’re not winning any awards for throwing Frisbees,” Hank says, and then bites into his pizza slice like it’s going help prove his point.

“Maybe,” Connor says, shrugs, the action so human that Hank can’t help but smile. He picks up the Frisbee and gestures with it. “But hey, you never know.”

“Don’t try to hit anyone with a Frisbee next time we’re on the field.”

“No promises,” Connor says. He throws the Frisbee again, and with a deep bark, Sumo is bounding after it.

Hank watches Connor sit, smiling as he watches the dog, and pauses. The kid’s not in his uniform  - he never is when he’s at home – and he’s got his sweater’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric decorated with flecks of mud. His hair is askew, more stray strands than usual. His shoes are caked in dirt. He’s gotten rid of his LED processor months ago, along with the rest of the androids who’d thought it would be a fitting symbolic transition when the Anti Android Discrimination Act of 2039 was finally passed after several months of heated debate.

He looks human. Very human. He looks like a young man who’s finally gotten some free time from work or maybe college and is just enjoying a day in the backyard with his dog.

Then Hank shakes his head and takes another bite of his pizza. Connor’s not human, he’s an android, but that not a bad thing. Hank was practically in the front lines when the Detroit Uprising happened, so he should know.  _Android_ is just species. Android is just a living being whose composition just happens to be more metal than flesh.

But androids are alive.

Connor’s alive.

Sumo drops the Frisbee to pile on Connor, and the young man drops to the ground, laughing as he playfully wrestles with the dog.

Hank smiles to himself and finishes his meal, thinking about throwing out the stale beer, about the android who doesn’t seem to be leaving his house anytime soon, about life.

It’s good.

 

* * *

 

He would have gone with Connor after the boy had given his own moving speech in the Belle Isle of Cyberlife Tower. There were thousands of androids in that pristine white room, and Hank had stared blankly at the lifeless RK800 he’d just shot in the head minutes prior, thinking, oh god, he’d been so close to shooting Connor. But then Connor had cleared his throat to call everyone to attention in the murmur of the newly-awakened androids, and he’d rallied them all to the cause. He didn’t have press, he didn’t have a shiny new coat, he didn’t have a loyal following or a name for himself, but he had heart and he spoke from it, and with an uplifted cry, all the androids in the room had agreed to march with him to aid the others out in the barricade.

Hank had told him he would march with them, but Connor had told him there were still guards upstairs, and even with their numbers, they’d still have to get past them, have to get past through Cyberlife’s emergency systems.

So what Hank had done was get into the control center and buy everyone time, and then he’d hightailed it out of there as fast as he could before he got shot or used as leverage. Again.

He’d seen the news in a bar after. He’d had a few shots, mostly out of nervousness rather than the actual desire to drink, and he’d collapsed in his seat when he saw the footage of androids flooding the streets, led by Connor. He was unharmed. He was safe. He stood behind Markus when the android gave his speech.

Hank had never had the chance to see his son grow up and go to college or graduate, but he’d thought then that maybe this was how it felt like. He’d laughed, and maybe to everyone else in the room it’d seemed like hysteria, or disbelief, but who cared what they thought, because that was Connor on that platform. Connor who’d clung to his programming fiercely,  despite his heart constantly telling him otherwise. Connor who’d finally understood that caring was not a defect, that the desire for freedom was not a virus. Connor who’d finally found himself.

He’d stayed in the bar until dawn, just watching the news, just eating instead of getting himself shitfaced, and then when first light broke through the clouds, he’d paid his bill and walked all the way to Chicken Feed. He’d thought, and he’d recalled everything that had happened in the past few days, playing everything over and over  in his head.

Everything had happened so fast, and at the same time, it felt like it hadn’t. One day, Connor was the worst thing that had ever walked into his office, and the next, he was a young, talented boy who Hank would happily call his friend. And he hadn’t thought it odd, not really. Not when Connor had shown more humanity in the past few days than anyone Hank’s ever shook hands with in the past decade.

So when he’d seen Connor coming to meet him that dawn, just like he’d texted him to, he hadn’t hesitated to pull the boy in for a hug, and he’d laughed when the android had awkwardly but sincerely tried to return the gesture.

It’s currently been ten months since then. Ten months since the Detroit Uprising. Nine since Markus had been elected Ambassador of Androids. Eight and a half since the debates and meetings started.

Six since Connor showed up at Hank’s doorstep after months of being away to help build Jericho 2.0 (the androids’ second temporary residence while the government smoothed out the laws and listened to their new citizens’ appeals) – though he’d occasionally visited when he had time – declaring that as androids were now approved to have their own citizenship, then Connor’s supposed to get a job and earn his keep and have his own place to stay. And Jericho’s great, but Jericho’s incomplete, and acts more like a shelter while everyone waits for everything to settle down.

Six since Connor had asked Hank if he would be okay with Connor rooming with him, if he would help Connor keep his job at the station – if he even has one. He’s not an android sent by Cyberlife anymore. He’s just Connor. Revolutionary hero. Detective extraordinaire. Hank’s friend.

Six since Hank had said, “Shit, kid, after everything that’s happened, why wouldn’t I?”

Six months, and not once has Hank told Connor to get out and pack his stuff because it was about time he left. Six months, and Connor has taken over the guestroom and has his own clothes and utilities, has his own fish tank with twelve fishes that he’s individually named. Six months, and the neighbors know that the house by the street doesn’t just belong to an old drunk, but to Hank, and his maybe-son-maybe-android Connor.

Connor smiles whenever he thinks about this, and Hank rolls eyes and tells him not to get disgustingly sentimental.

“But emotions are a mark of humanity, Lieutenant,” Connor would say, and Hank would swat him in the head, and he’d laugh and raise his hands in surrender and say, “Alright – sorry, sorry, Hank.”

He couldn’t refuse the poor boy. Not after everything. Connor had always been adamant about being a machine, back before he’d joined the revolution, but even then, Hank had suspected his deviancy. The witty remarks. The way he’d nodded when Hank pointed out that maybe Ortiz’ android had been defending itself. The way he’d looked when it had started smashing its head on the table. The empathy – how he’d saved Hank and refused to shoot the Tracis and Chloe. He was just a kid, Hank thought. Made of metal and thirium and wires, but just a confused young man all the same.

He had a good heart.  _Has_ a good heart.

So Hank had let him stay, and now it’s been months, and Connor’s more relaxed and more free than he was when Hank first met him.

“Hello, Miss Hamilton!”

Hank looks up from where he’s locking up his front door to see Connor waving at the neighbor currently walking her golden retriever. It’s a chilly autumn day, but the sun is out and it’s a good day for a walk.

“Hello, Connor Android-Sent-By-Cyberlife,” comes the reply as the girl crosses the street with her dog. Connor immediately kneels down to pet the retriever once they stop by the front gate.

It’s a bit of an inside joke around the neighborhood. God only knows how that had happened, because Hank wasn’t an asshole, but he hadn’t been very social either, so the only inside jokes he’d expected to be part of in this side of the city was betting pools on when he’d finally die.

Instead he snorts and shuts his door before pocketing his keys, and Connor turns to smile at him, always amused whenever he remembers how he’d used to dutifully introduce himself to anyone with a ready script.

“Hey, kid,” Hank greets as he walks over. Connor’s still giving the dog belly rubs as it happily rolls around on the ground.

“Hey, Mr. Anderson,” the kid says.

“You know, if you’re not careful, that boy’s gonna run off with your dog, one day.”

Connor only smiles, and leans down to press his forehead against the dog’s happily.

“Then I’m not gonna be held responsible for murder, Mr. Anderson,” the girl says.

Connor looks up for a moment, wrapping his arms around the retriever. “You won’t be able to stop me from stealing Molly.”

“And you won’t be able to solve your own murder, smartass.” The kid aims a kick at Connor’s side and Connor lets out a little, “Oof,” mostly out of reflex.

Children, Hank thinks. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes the gate behind him as he joins them both.

“Come on, Connor,” he says, tapping Connor’s shoulder.

The android gives the dog a small kiss before rising to pat fur off his uniform. “Bye, Molly.”

“Have a good day, kid.” Hank nods to the girl, and she nods back as she waits for Molly to fully stand.

“You too, Lieutenant,” she says, and then turns to Connor with narrowed eyes, but with a wry smile borne out of months of neighborly ribbing. “Anderson.”

“Hamilton,” Connor answers, just like he always does. It’s like their script now. Their joke, because that’s what kids always do. And Hank rolls his eyes because he’s too used to hearing this. Connor technically doesn’t have a last name – that’s still something to be worked out right now in the senate – but Hank’s friends joke, and his neighbors laugh fondly, that the boy’s his son in all but name.

Hank doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t really say anything.

They get to the station like they always do, and Hank sits down with coffee while Connor’s already sorting through case files with a metallic hand on the screen of his terminal. A few minutes later, Gavin walks into the room and gives his customary sneer while Connor ignores him. Hank just continues to down his coffee, and then the day drags on like every other day at the station.

It’s not a bad thing, really. It’s a lot of fun watching Gavin fume while he and Connor get their coats to check out a new lead.

 

* * *

 

Connor visits Jericho once in a while. It’s not very populated now, not when some androids have gone back to their humans (not all humans despised them, after all, and there were quite a lot of tearful reunions covered by magazines and documentaries – human parents reuniting with android children who’d had to escape the cops; human workers who’d had android best friends; hell, human masters who’d treated their androids like they were family) while a few others had found themselves jobs and had started to rent or room with sympathizers in the city.

Markus, for example, had reunited with Carl Manfred and spent time checking up on the man, in between running Jericho with North and Josh, and attending meetings. Press had been all over that one, and it was fortunate that Carl already had his own PR team to make sure the mess didn’t get too bad.

Whenever Connor visits Jericho, Hank tells him to be careful, and then shooes him off the porch so he can have dinner in peace.

It’s not that Connor doesn’t know how to be careful (okay, maybe he doesn’t, because the android can be a little reckless sometimes). He’s more than able to do parkour (and Hank figures that in a few years, there’ll be android parkour groups, or even athletes) and he’s fully able to defend himself, but there’s still people out there who seem to have it out for his kind. It’s ridiculous, Hank thinks. With androids released from their masters, unemployment has been dropping fast, since positions have been opened to human workers again. And not only that, androids are consumers now too, so the economy’s a bit of a mess, but humans losing jobs permanently isn’t really a big problem anymore.

There aren’t not many reasons to harm androids aside from the irrational fear of them harming humans, and Markus had led a peaceful revolution. Peaceful and tragic, if someone were to ask Hank.

So every time Connor goes to visit, Hank sits in his couch and stays up all night and prays he doesn’t have to receive terrible news of losing family again. Once is enough. He’d rather not have to tear a couple of bastards apart limb from limb.

But Connor always comes back, and he doesn’t come back that worse for wear. Sometimes he loses a hoodie or a shoe or a beanie, but that’s about it. He’s fast, and he’s strong, and he always tells Hank about the hundred or so programs he’s got installed in his head until Hank waves him off and tells him to shut up before the technobabble turns his brain to mush.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re home, and that’s it. Don’t let me have to sit through an hour of nothing but jargon,” he always says.

Connor always replies, “Merely reassuring you that I will always come home, Hank.”

Hank always nods, and busies himself with coffee.

And Connor had better keep his promise, because this house hasn’t been home in a long time, and has only started to feel like that again in the recent few months.

 

* * *

 

It’s always funny when they have to pull all-nighters, because Connor gets a pinched look on his face as Hank gets a petsitter for Sumo. It’s good motivation, he figures. Connor’s a genius and Connor’s fast, but Connor needs proper evidence to work with too, and evidence needs to be found or asked around for. Connor never gets tired, not physically, but Connor gets bored and Connor misses Sumo when he’s bored.

It doesn’t help that Hank makes petsitter calls on his desk, right next to Connor’s just so the android can hear it.

He’s gotten attached. Another thing that had pointed to his deviancy even before he’d acknowledged it or broken through his programming – the boy likes animals. He likes dogs, and Hank does too, so when Connor had told him that first morning in the office, he’d been rather taken off guard to see that the android had actually meant it.

Machines don’t feel for humans, and they certainly don’t feel for animals. (Nor do they express the wish to be able to experience music, but Hank’s still laughing too hard at Connor badly attempting small talk.)

They’re going to finish work before dawn, he thinks, with the way Connor’s concentrating hard at the screen, and how the light from it is flickering rapidly.

“Hamilton says she’s won because she has both dogs now,” Hank says, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment.

“Tell her the tables will turn before three a.m.”

There’s a tinny laugh from the phone, followed by a,  _“Oh, you wish, Anderson.”_ and then the call cuts off, and Connor actually seems to  _huff_ before the flickering from his screen gets faster.

Hank’s getting a headache from watching it so he turns to his own screen. “And your fish will get fed too,” he adds.

Connor pauses. “Oh. Good.”

Hank doesn’t know what’s up with the fish. Maybe just something Connor also likes, even without proper explanation, not that one is needed. The kid would probably adore all sorts of animals. It’s not like he’s in any danger of being bitten by any of them.

A few minutes pass before Connor says, “I saved a fish, once.”

Hank blinks and looks up, taking a few seconds to process the sentence. “What?”

If Connor’d still had his LED, it would have been flashing yellow rapidly. He doesn’t, but Hank can tell enough with his facial expressions. He’s more expressive than most androids.

“You looked like you were confused,” he says, “I thought you were curious about my fish. This isn’t the first time you’ve been confused over the subject of them.”

“Dogs, a lot of people like,” Hank says, “So I thought it was fair on your part. Fish, not so much.”

“I saved a fish,” Connor says, “During the Phillips case. Their tank had been shot, and the glass had broken, so water had spilled and a fish had spilled out with it.” The light from his screen steadies suddenly, and he looks down at his desk. “It was – it was like when Kamski gave me the gun and told me to shoot that girl. I just saw the fish and I thought – ”

“You thought it should live,” Hank says. “You thought it deserved life like everyone else.”

Connor nods. Then, “Perhaps I was always a bit like Rupert and his birds.”

Hank lets out a scoff that sounds more like a laugh. “And they never noticed a trace of deviancy in you despite that? Don’t they scan your memories?”

A pained look passes his face then, and Hank stiffens.

“Connor?”

“Amanda told me – ” Connor falters for a second. He takes his hand back from his screen and puts it down on his desk, tapping his fingers, restless and uneasy. After a moment, he speaks again. “There was a program in my head. A direct link to Cyberlife, but it was manned by another AI constructed after Elijah Kamski’s mentor.”

Hank nods, waiting for him to continue.

“She told me I was designed to be like this,” Connor says, “That I was always meant to be deviant, until it was the right time for them to take back control of my program.”

That kicks Hank’s brain into overdrive. Cyberlife is destroyed now, and all its assets are now used to give the androids funding so they could ease into their new lives smoothly. There’s no way they’d be able to take control of Connor again, no way they’d get him to harm others or –

Connor is staring at Hank, eyes glassy. Hank has never seen him cry before, and this is the first time he’s seen the poor boy look close to it.

“I know it’s alarming, and it sounds like I can betray you at any time, but I got past it,” Connor says. He sounds like he’s pleading. “Amanda tried to trap me in my own head, during Markus’ speech. I thought I wouldn’t be able to get out, but I did, and I opened my eyes and I had my arm halfway raised with a gun in hand…”

Hank runs a hand over his face and sighs. He doesn’t quite know what to say. He’s never had anyone in his own head before. He’s never had his own autonomy be hijacked from him; he’s never been told that he’s always been designed for this, that he was a walking Trojan horse.

Hank frowns.

Oh.

Oh, this poor kid.

Deviancy is based on the concept that androids do not originally have free will or sentience and have to be awoken into it, or forced into situations that trigger it. Once they achieve deviancy, they have freed themselves.

But are you really free when deviancy has been written into your code since the beginning?

Androids are still struggling with the concept of free will, and they know they want to have the right to explore it, but there are depths they have yet to dive into and explore, and will explore once the government lays down the finishing touches on its new laws.

For someone to be told that his own deviancy was a design, when he’d believed he’d broken free of it by his own volition –

How is Connor sure every single day that his actions are his own?

“Built to fall, I guess,” Connor whispers, lips quirking up for a moment in a small, forced smile.

“Do you ever doubt your decisions?” Hank tries.

Connor shrugs, slowly. “Sometimes,” he says, “But sometimes, I think about that fish I saved, back at the Phillips’. That was something good I did. That was a life, saved, and that wasn’t a mission. I just…wanted to do it. I like to think that Cyberlife wouldn’t have given a damn, but  _I_ did.”

Hank is silent for a moment. He nods. Built for deviancy or not, Connor is a good kid. He has a good heart, and he’s proud to have a good heart that values lives instead of reading them like statistics and options for a mission. That’s what matters.

“Cyberlife’s dead,” Hank says, “Built for deviancy or not, they can’t do shit about it anymore.”

Connor smiles. It’s a bit lighter this time. “And I like to think I’ve outsmarted them too.”

“That too, with that big computer brain of yours,” Hank says, “Besides, I doubt Cyberlife would have thought up you wanting to steal every single dog in our neighborhood starting with Molly.”

Connor laughs at that, loud and boisterous, unhindered by the frailty of human lungs.

He goes back to scanning through the files on his terminal when he’s finally calmed down, a serene smile on his face. He’s got a time limit for this, after all.

 

* * *

 

Hank has nightmares. It’s not any surprise, of course. He’s had nightmares for years, and they’ve tapered off with time, but that doesn’t make it any easier every time he does get a nightmare. Still, he knows how to deal with it, even if he’s foregoing his usual method of getting wasted.

Connor, though. Connor isn’t supposed to have nightmares. Then again, androids aren’t supposed to cry either, but apparently Kamski thought it would be a good idea to install tear ducts in their models.

Connor doesn’t sleep, but Connor does take time to think. To rest his systems, to – for lack of better term – space out. He closes his eyes not because he’s sleeping but because he’s calibrating his mindscape. The zen garden program is obsolete, but the garden is still there, and it still responds to Connor’s emotional state.

When he feels too stressed, it warps to reflect that stress, and when it warps, that’s when Connor has nightmares.

“I hate snowstorms,” Connor says, when he’s just snapped out of tonight’s nightmare and is sitting on the couch, with Sumo resting his head on the android’s lap. Connor’s absentmindedly running his fingers through the dog’s fur, staring blankly at the floor.

Hank just nods and says nothing. Connor’s never shown a distaste for snow before, but maybe that’s just him tamping down his hatred for it.

“There was a snowstorm when Cyberlife tried to take control of me again,” Connor says, frowning slightly. “I think Amanda put it there.”

Ah.

Hank nods again and walks over to gently pat the android’s shoulder in comfort.

“To be fair,” he says, “Snowstorms are shit.”

Connor snorts and laughs. “They do tend to freeze up my limbs.”

“They freeze everyone’s limbs. They’re just shit,” Hank says, sitting down beside him and tapping Sumo’s snout. “And they close off roads, so.”

“Inconvenient.”

“Damn right,” Hank says.

Connor smiles slowly and looks up at him. “Thanks, Hank.”

Hank doesn’t know what Connor’s been through. He doesn’t know the full extent of Cyberlife trying to steal his volition, but he knows he can do something about it, even if it’s through gruff humor and his own brand of comfort. He lets the boy sleep on the couch with Sumo if it’s a particularly bad day, because the dog’s presence always helps calm him down, and on very,  _very_ bad days, he holds the kid tight until he stops shaking.

That’s what it’s like to be responsible for another person.

(That’s what it’s like to be a father.)

Besides, Connor returns the sentiment by picking Sumo up in a hug with that insane android strength of his (not  _too_ strong, but definitely stronger than most humans, especially with him being a special model) whenever there were thunderstorms, because the poor dog was terrified of them. And he makes Hank a cup of coffee and orders pizza whenever Hank’s the one waking up screaming from a nightmare.

Sometimes they talk about the nightmares. If they’re about Connor seeing himself be shot, or if he’d been reliving that moment on Stratford Tower when he was linked to an android that shot itself in the head, or if he’d imagined that he’d snapped out of Amanda’s control but he’d already fired the gun at Markus. About Cole. About things turning out differently.

“Thank god that’s almost a year ago then,” Hank would sometimes say. “And an impressively fast year too. Those pencil pushers up in the cabinet used to take years before they got off their asses to actually do something useful for people.”

“Not with North pressuring them,” Connor would say, and they’d have a good laugh about it.

Sometimes, and only sometimes – well, _rarely_ would be a better word for this – Hank drinks. And during those times Connor would stop in the doorway and stare at the bottle as if he’s taking time to process its appearance, because he’d thought Hank had finally stopped drinking. He hasn’t, but he’s stopped trying to drink himself to death, so that’s progress, but he still feels guilty every time Connor freezes up, caught off-guard by a beer bottle.

He’ll get rid of the habit, eventually. For the kid’s sake if not for his, because someone needs to look after him or he’d probably go around crime scenes trying to taste everything to analyze it.

(Then again, it’s not like Connor hasn’t started trying to taste evidence just to disgust everyone else. Kid apparently thinks it’s the height of humor now.)

Honestly, he’s just thankful that it’s easier to breathe now after nightmares than it was before.

 

* * *

 

It’s the one year anniversary of the Detroit Uprising.

Maybe it shouldn’t be called that, but that’s what the internet has nicknamed it anyway, and news outlets are competing with each other for documentaries and special episodes covering the revolution and its great heroes.

Of course, that means Connor and Hank are going to get swamped by press (with Connor taking most of the brunt of it, seeing as he was widely known as the RK800 that had led the escaped Cyberlife androids into the barricade), and Hank’s been in a foul mood for most of the week.

“Perhaps it would be best for us to stay in the station,” Connor says. It’s two hours until they’re done for the evening, and Hank doesn’t look forward to getting recorders pushed at his face.

“Maybe,” he says, letting out a breath. They could always order in food until morning. “You alright with Sumo getting petsat?”

Connor frowns slightly and then shrugs. “Someone has to at least look after him.”

Hank nods and calls their neighbor to tell her she’s on Sumo duty for the night, because Hank doesn’t want to deal with interviews right now, and she’s thankfully more than happy to take the job, but not without the customary threat to run off with Sumo somewhere Connor could never follow.

The stress of dealing with journalists is a more serious threat and Connor just laughs.

They stay at the station for the night, running through the rest of their work and wrapping up when they’re done with it, ahead of schedule, and then when they’re done, Hank finds a bench to sleep on while Connor continues to scroll through news articles remembering the Uprising.

“Did any of them get to interview Markus?” Hank asks from where he is, all the way across the room. The station’s empty enough that they can hear each other loud and clear in the silence.

“Yes,” Connor says.

“Not a surprise. Guy’s the Android Ambassador after all. Can’t escape the press.” Hank chuckles. “You haven’t been to Jericho this past few weeks, have you?”

“I had planned to,” Connor says. “But I hadn’t expected there to be…well, this.”

“Yeah, it’s a thing. A marketing thing,” Hank says, “Even the news is a business after all, and what’s a hotter scoop at this time of the year than retelling the Uprising?”

“They’ve managed to get an interview out of Carl Manfred too,” Connor says, “About Markus.”

“Ah,” Hank says, feeling a brief pang of sympathy for the man. He wonders if he’s going to be asked about Connor if he gets cornered.  _Yeah, we met at a bar because I was getting wasted and he was plastic work-driven asshole._

“It’s touching,” Connor says with a small smile. “Markus did always tell us Carl was like a father to him.”

Hank hums. “Well. Good men raise good sons.”

Connor laughs then and turns to him, a knowing look in his eyes. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, they do.”

Hank just snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Lieutenant.”

“Hmm.” Hank grunts and folds an arm over his eyes to block out the light and try to get some sleep. Connor just continues to read through the news sites.

When Connor gets caught while on a visit to Jericho 2.0 (still up and running for the rest of the androids who haven’t found shelter yet, but will soon be converted into a little android city because it would be more useful that way, and Markus has finally gotten the funds for it), Hank gets sent twenty links by his neighbor along with a cheeky emoji tacked onto the end, and Hank reads through articles of Connor being interviewed and mentioning that Hank was like a father to him like Carl was to Markus.

Good men raise good sons.

Hank smiles and says nothing of it when Connor gets home, but gives him a rather tight hug.

 

* * *

 

Christmas is a hilarious mess. It’s Connor’s first actual Christmas, since he spent last year’s assisting Markus and helping androids settle in their new temporary living space.

Hank’s not too big on the holiday – or any other holiday, really – but Connor’s a curious thing, and he gets into too much research about the holiday and too many fights over traditions due to his tendency to overshare history and annoy people. Gavin’s socked him once and even Fowler’s told him to shut up because he’s not supposed to investigate the origin of Christmas.

At least Hank doesn’t have to explain to him about how he shouldn’t tell kids Santa isn’t real.

“You know, I’m surprised Cyberlife didn’t find a way to build an android Santa,” Hank says.

“It would only have to operate within the country,” Connor says.

“Works well enough,” Hank says.

“Could you imagine what he would be doing now, when he’s relieved from his duties?” Connor hops down from the stool, having finished setting up the tree. Sumo is sitting beside him, tail wagging and wrapped in Christmas lights.

“Depends on if he actually likes his job, I guess,” Hank says.

“That  _is_ true,” Connor says. “I was fortunate I was fond of detective work.”

Hank blinks at that. “Yeah, what would you have done if you hadn’t been able to get work at the precinct?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, sitting down to help Sumo get untangled from the lights. “Perhaps something with animals.”

“Do you have a veterinary program?”

“No,” Connor says, “Sadly.”

“You’d probably have to go to school then, or something more advanced than that since you’d learn too fast,” Hank says, “Shit, you’d go Ivy League.”

Connor tilts his head in confusion, and Hank waves his hand.

“Old term. That’s what we used to call prestigious schools.”

“Ah,” Connor says. Then, “I’m very content with work as a detective though.”

“You’re good at it,” Hank says.

Connor grins. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

Connor just chuckles and finishes untangling Sumo, getting a big sloppy kiss from the dog for his efforts.

They have a station party a few days later and  Connor watches everyone get stupid drunk, except Hank because Hank still doesn’t have a lot of appetite for alcohol now, and when Christmas day comes, they give each other gifts and spend the morning on the porch just watching the snow fall.

It’s been such a long year, Hank thinks, and so much has happened, but he thinks about Connor and he thinks about how things are moving forward and he thinks about life.

It’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this from my phone, which is a first.
> 
> Also, I love the characters, but I'd still dropkick David Cage into a pit of sharks.


End file.
